I'll be Home for Christmas
by snuggalong
Summary: "I'll make it home to you," he whispered. "I promise." Seven Christmases spent at war...seven Christmases away from his family. All Matthew wants is to be home for Christmas, just this once. [FACE&P holiday story, implied France/England]


**I'll be Home for Christmas**

**

* * *

**

_**Dedicated to our troops—**_

_This is Captain Patrick Hullikan, and I want to wish a very merry Christmas to my family in Tennessee and to my beautiful girlfriend in California. I miss you all and I'll be home soon._

_**Wherever you are**_

_My name is Specialist Brooke Frisk and I'm in Baghdad, Iraq. I'd like to wish all my family and friends in Georgia and Wisconsin a very merry Christmas. I'm really going to miss spending the holidays with you..._

_**Wherever you go**_

_I'll see you guys real soon  
__Love you guys  
__Bye_

_**Know that we are thankful for all that you do**_

_**

* * *

**_

_I'm dreaming tonight of a place I love  
__Even more than I usually do_

Matthew was dreaming, dreaming for the first time in a long time. He could not remember the last time he had dreamed—not since before this seemingly endless war, at least.

But somehow he was dreaming. Perhaps there was something to be said for the fact that it was Christmas Eve. Tomorrow would be Christmas—his fifth away from his family.

Five years since he had been deployed to fight this war. And while he had been home, several times, and seen his family—

—it just wasn't the same as the togetherness and sense of family that Christmas brought. How he wished he could go home for Christmas, see them—if only for a moment.

He supposed he would have to make do with his dreams—dreams that he probably wouldn't remember in the morning, dreams that would quickly fade under the onslaught of war and violence, but happy dreams all the same.

In his dreams, he was home. He was loved, and he was remembered.

In the darkness of an Afghanistan night, Matthew smiled.

_And although I know  
__It's a long road back, I promise you_

He was so tired.

Matthew stumbled into the barracks, barely seeing the floor in front of him. How he made it to his bunk, he wasn't sure—he probably had one of his comrades to thank for him not sleeping on the cement that night.

He collapsed onto his bunk, eyes closing. And in the muted silence of the dorm, the images returned. He shuddered.

A seemingly normal day of patrol had turned violent and terrible in the blink of an eye when a car bomb went off in the middle of a crowded street.

Over a dozen had been killed, and he...he had held one little girl, a little girl who couldn't have been more than eight years old, as she died in his arms, crying for her father that had been standing next to her when the car exploded and was killed instantly by flying shrapnel.

Her dark, pleading eyes burned behind his closed eyelids and he shuddered even more violently, his hand reaching convulsively for his neck, grasping wildly for the locket that always hung there.

He pulled it out and nearly dropped it in his desperation to get it open. It dangled limply from his fingers once it finally was, and he drank in the sight of the familiar pictures like a man finding water in the desert.

On one side was a picture of his fathers, one of the few he'd managed to get both of them in looking mildly civil. His papa had his arm slung around his father's shoulder, grinning wildly—and you could see his other hand creeping towards a secondary destination, a fact not missed by the man next to him. The other, while smiling, was also in the midst of smacking his papa's arm, violently.

Matthew smiled, as he always did with this particular picture. It was so typical of them.

The other side held a photo of his brother, with his trademark million watt grin and thumbs up. Not so trademark was the white polar bear tucked under his other arm—Matthew's own polar bear, dragged (sort of) unwillingly into the picture by his 'hero' brother.

He chuckled, and was surprised to find the sound choked with tears. The image of that little girl's eyes burned again, and as he closed the locket he pressed a gentle kiss to the cold, silver metal.

"I'll make it home to you," he whispered. "I promise."

_I'll be home for Christmas  
__You can count on me  
__Please, have snow and mistletoe  
__And presents under the tree_

It took every piece of willpower he had—every single drop—not to cry when his brother—his brother, the _hero—_asked him, like a small child—

"Mattie...are you ever coming home to stay?"

They were standing in the airport, having come to the end of yet another one of Matthew's two week leaves, two weeks that always passed far too quickly.

His papa was making sure he was checked in, his father making sure his baggage was where it needed to be. They never said good-bye until the very last moments, when they couldn't leave it any more.

Matthew reached out and pulled his brother into a hug. Normally the other would have protested, but he could tell Matthew was doing it more for his own sake than his, so he let him.

"I wish I could, Alfred. You have no idea how much I wish I could come home."

Alfred scowled. "If only my boss wasn't so damned overprotective and would actually let me go fight with my people. Then I could help you. Or at least you wouldn't be alone anymore."

Matthew pulled back to look at him, a small smile on his face. "But then who would keep Arthur and Francis from killing each other? They can barely deal with the fact that I'm fighting this war, you can't leave them too."

Alfred sighed. "I know...I know...damnit, I just feel so _useless_."

Matthew smacked him upside his head. "You get rid of those thoughts right now, Alfred F. Jones, or so help me I will wash out your head—and mouth, for good measure—with soap, and _no_ I don't care that you're technically the older brother."

"Mattie!"

"Matthew?"

Matthew turned to see Arthur coming towards him, Francis only a step behind him, their faces uncharacteristically serious. The smile slipped slightly from his face.

"It's time, isn't it?" he asked tiredly.

Arthur nodded gravely. "It is, lad. They're boarding the plane."

Matthew fought once more against the stinging sensation of tears as Francis darted forward to wrap him in a tight hug.

"_Mon chéri..."_ he murmured into Matthew's hair. "I hate this. Every single time...it never stops hurting. _Je t'aime_, Matthieu. _Je t'aime._"

"I know, papa," Matthew murmured back. "I know. _Moi aussi, je t'aime, papa."_

He pulled back regretfully and moved to stand in front of Arthur—Arthur, who was most definitely not one for hugs.

Suddenly, he didn't care, and before the other could protest he stepped forward and hugged him tightly.

"I'll miss you, Arthur," he said quietly, and felt the man stiffen. Hesitant arms came up to hug him back.

"Me too, lad, me too," Arthur replied. They separated hurriedly, glancing awkward at the floor.

Matthew stepped back and looked at his family, the three of them gazing back at him. He suddenly felt so very lonely—like a glass wall was between them.

He shook his head to banish those thoughts. They were family, no matter what, no matter how much distance separated them.

They would have forever to make up for it, after all.

"No good-byes," he found himself saying. "Just see you later."

They nodded, and with one final wave and a searing feeling of regret, he turned to walk away towards where he could see the rest of his comrades boarding the plane.

"Matthew!" a voice yelled behind him, and he turned. It was Alfred. "Christmas?" he called.

Matthew blinked, and then grinned brightly. "Christmas!" he affirmed. "Count on it! Have the presents ready! And make it a _white_ Christmas! Snow, how I miss thee..."

Alfred laughed and waved him on.

That laughter followed him all the way back to Afghanistan.

_Christmas Eve will find you  
__Where the love light gleams_

He had broken his promise, was the only thought that went through his head as he woke on Christmas Eve, haunted by dreams of mistletoe and firelight and laughter—still in his bunk in the barracks in Afghanistan.

He sat up and stared blankly into the gray predawn light, before dropping his head to his curled up knees.

"Alfred, Arthur, Francis..." he whispered. "I'm sorry. Tomorrow...I won't be home."

His blue mood followed him throughout the day, only worsening as the evening grew closer and with it, Christmas. Even as all around him his comrades laughed and joked and were generally merry and excited, he continued to mope.

He supposed he should have known better than to make a promise he knew he probably wouldn't be able to keep. It wasn't his fault—he had tried to get permission to go home but he had failed, having been home only a few months before.

The others tried to draw him into the Christmas spirit, but finally left him alone after several failed attempts.

He spent the day trying and failing to compose a letter to his family, filling the small wastebasket with crumpled pieces of paper.

What could he say?

Eventually he gave up and flopped onto his bunk with a frustrated sigh, staring at the ceiling. The blue mood he'd been fighting back for several hours returned with a vengeance, and he was surprised to feel the sharp sting of tears in his eyes.

God...he just wanted to go _home. _Wanted to make pancakes with maple syrup and curl up on the couch with his maple sweater and Kumajirou—even if the bear never remembered who he was—and read a good book or watch bad movies. He wanted Alfred to burst in proclaiming his heroness and saying that he had come to rescue Matthew from the depths of boredom with some terrible American movie full of action and scantily clad woman.

He wanted to watch his father and his papa dance around each other as usual and end up fighting back laughter at their obliviousness.

He'd even acquiesce to Gilbert—his best friend—and his violent video games, so long as he was _home._

It _was_ home. And he wanted to be there, celebrating Christmas with them, not here, fighting a war that he hated so much.

Just as he was finally about to give into the tears, the door slammed opened and in bounded one of the few men he was friends with, a fellow Canadian from Ontario who had spent the day bouncing around like a giddy fool because he got a video call from his wife that morning and got to meet his brand new baby daughter.

"Matthew, Matthew, _Matthew_!" he called.

Matthew sighed and turned. "What, Scott?" he asked. "If you want me to see pictures of Elena, please remember that you've shown them to everyone on the base at least three times already."

Scott laughed. "I knowww, but she's just so beautiful! I'm a father, man!"

"We're aware," Matthew deadpanned. He was honestly happy for the man, but after seeing the same pictures several times over...it got rather old. Even on Christmas Eve.

"...call in the communications center," Scott said, and Matthew blinked, realizing he had tuned the man out.

"I'm sorry, what?" he asked. Scott laughed again. "You really are out of it today aren't you, Matthew? I said you've got a video call waiting for you in the communications center!"

Matthew blinked and sat up. "From who?" he asked, feeling a strange emotion growing in his chest, something that felt like hope.

"Dunno, but they said they thought for a moment you had deserted and gone home, there was a guy who looked just like you or something—"

Matthew was off the bed and halfway out the door before the other man had even finished his sentence. He bolted for the communications center, using every bit of his training to run faster. He managed to skid to a halt a minute later, almost missing the door in his haste. He was barely aware of Scott following him—the other man was curious about his younger (or so he thought) comrade, having seen him moping around all day.

"Matthew Williams?" the officer asked him as he burst in. He nodded. "Over there, terminal six."

He was gone before the man could even blink.

Matthew seated himself in the chair and reached for the button that could connect the call. A few moments of bated breath and static screen, and he was met with the grinning faces of his family; Alfred, Arthur, and Francis.

"Matthew!" "Mattie!" "Matthieu!" they all shouted, even Arthur, voices jumbling. Matthew laughed out loud and waved.

"I can't believe it's you guys! Why...how..."

Francis grinned like a shark. "Your government was only too happy to set this up for us, especially after we informed them of certain...consequences that would take place if we didn't finally get to talk to you, _mon chéri._"

"Like you groping them,_ France_?"

"I did not, _Amérique!"_

Matthew facepalmed. "I don't even want to know," he said drily. "I really don't. How are you guys?"

"We're fine," Arthur assured him, even as Alfred and Francis began a mini-brawl behind him. "OI, SHUT UP, YOU BLOODY IDIOTS! What about you, Matthew? Are you all right? Anything you haven't been telling us in your letters?"

Matthew laughed and shook his head. "No, nothing really exciting. Scrapes and bruises, the bullet graze or two I told you about, nothing too bad. At least not bad enough to send me home."

Alfred popped back up, Francis in a headlock beneath his arm. "We wouldn't mind you being home, even injured," he put in.

Matthew's smiled faltered. "I...Alfred..."

Francis cut him off. "Shush, Matthieu. No one blames you for not being able to keep your promise. _Right, Alfred?"_

Alfred pouted. "Yeah, yeah. No one blames you Matthew. We know it's not your fault."

Matthew buried his face in his hands. "I tried, I really tried, but they wouldn't—"

"Matthew Williams, I will shoot you myself if you do not stop spouting nonsense," Arthur scolded him.

Matthew sighed. "Fine. So...is the Christmas tree up?" he asked.

"Of course!" America butted in. "We got the biggest tree there was—none better from the hero! And it's all decorated! We even put up your funky ornaments!"

Matthew blinked and decided not to comment on the insult towards his decorating tastes. "I wish I had presents for you guys," he admitted, just slightly sad.

"Don't worry about it, Matthieu," France told him gently. "Being able to talk to you like this is present enough."

There was that burning feeling again.

"But we have a present for you!" Alfred said suddenly, excited.

Matthew blinked again. He was several thousand miles away. What could they possibly...

"Oi! Don't treat the awesome me like I'm some sort of object, yeah! I'm too awesome to be just a _present!_ I am God's awesome gift to man, woman, and Matthews everywhere!"

Matthew's eyes widened as a _very_ familiar figure came into view. "Gilbert?" he asked in astonishment.

The albino ex-nation waved at him, grinning wildly. "Hey, birdie! So whad'dya say? Isn't the awesome me just the best Christmas present you've ever gotten, yeah?"

He rolled his eyes. "Only you, Gilbert, only you."

"Duh! I'm too awesome for anyone else to be me!"

Noticing movement out of the corner of his eye, Matthew turned to see Scott standing a short distance away, tapping the watch on his wrist. Matthew understood—he had to finish up quickly so that other soldiers could get their calls in.

"Guys, I've got to go," he told them sadly, and watched their expressions fall.

"All right, lad," Arthur told him. "We just wanted to say hello, and Merry Christmas, all right?"

"Merry Christmas," he replied warmly. "Gilbert, drink lots of eggnog for me, all right? Francis, don't grope my government representatives, Alfred, don't blow them up or anything, and Arthur, make sure Kumajirou hasn't destroyed my house in search of food if Alfred's forgotten to feed him, all right?"

"Hey! I have not forgotten!" Alfred exclaimed, but he was cut off by a palm to his face, courtesy of Gilbert.

"Shut up, idiot. Bye, Birdie! Merry Christmas!"

"Stay safe, Matthew!"

"See you guys!"

He cut the line amid a flurry of farewells and holiday well wishes, sinking back into the chair with a silly grin on his face.

"Family?" Scott asked as he stood to free the chair for the next man.

Matthew nodded, stilling walking on air as they made their way back to the dorm.

"The only family someone like me can have, I suppose," he replied.

He dreamed again that night, much like he had the year before. He was home, he was loved...and he wasn't forgotten.

He woke the next morning laughing, with tears running down his face, feeling happier than he had in years.

When he said, "Merry Christmas," to everyone that morning, he felt that for once, he actually meant it.

_I'll be home for Christmas  
__If only in my dreams_

The merry feeling faded quickly. Violence and fighting were flaring up again, and no one was going home anymore, hardly anyone.

Scott was sent home with a bullet in his stomach. Matthew told him to say hello to his daughter from him, and the man assured him he would.

(They never saw each other again, even though after Scott healed he tried to find Matthew. Matthew made sure to check in on the man periodically, even if from a distance. He saw his daughter once, when she was five years old. She was every bit as cute as when she was born.)

Matthew had barely sent a word to his family as the next year passed, let alone gotten to speak to them. His letters were few and far between and usually only a single paragraph.

His locket was sometimes the only thing that got him through the long, blurry days, and the even longer nights.

Hardly a day seemed to pass by without some bomb or another going off somewhere, and Matthew's dreams were haunted by flames and twisted metal and more dark, pleading eyes to join the first pair.

Days blurred into weeks and weeks blurred into months and suddenly it was December again but he could hardly care less because he was so tired.

What did Christmas mean, anymore? Just the painful memories of tears and laughter and broken promises, and a wish that was never granted.

_Christmas Eve will find me  
__Where the love light gleams_

It was sometime in late December—December 23nd, though he didn't know it—when he was approached by his commanding officer and told four words that turned his world upside down.

"Williams, you're going home."

He blinked, and blinked again, the letter that he was trying to write drifting unnoticed to the floor of the mess hall.

"I...what?"

There was a twinkle in the man's eye. "Do I really have to repeat myself, Williams? You're going home! The transport leaves tomorrow morning, the plane tomorrow night—you'll be home on Christmas Eve, thanks to time zones, just in time for Christmas."

And it finally seemed to seep through to Matthew. "Home," he whispered, and a wide grin spread across his face. "I'm going home!"

And an instant later he was gone, heading to his bunk to pack, leaving behind his highly bemused commanding officer.

"Sad, when we take so much from them they can hardly believe they're being given the chance to go home," he murmured.

Matthew packed his things with an energy he had not displayed in months. Finally, after so long, he would see his family. Alfred, Arthur, Francis, Gilbert, Kumajirou...everyone.

_I'll be home for Christmas, everyone,_ he thought. _It's taken me seven years...but I'm coming home for Christmas._

He didn't sleep enough that night to dream.

_I'll be home for Christmas_

The next day was a blur of bumpy road and dry, dusty air, and then the cold darkness of the carrier that was taking them home.

Matthew was afraid to even blink, for fear that if he closed his eyes, it would all turn out to be a dream.

Sometime during the flight, he realized that they probably wouldn't even know he was coming home.

He was right. When he landed, he was the only person who didn't have a family to greet, to hug, to laugh and to cry with.

But he knew where they were. So with a light—though slightly heavy—heart, he slung his pack over his shoulder and went to catch a cab.

He'd be home within the hour.

_If only in my dreams_

It began to snow somewhere along the way, and he stared out of the cab's window at the falling flakes in wonder. It had been years since the last time he saw snow.

When the cab driver dropped him off outside his home, he spent several minutes just standing in the snow, twirling and catching the crystalline flakes on his tongue like a small child.

But eventually his movements slowed and he found himself standing on the sidewalk, staring at the brightly lit windows of his home. Obviously Arthur had reigned in the more flashy tendencies of Francis and Alfred—the decorations were elegantly beautiful, wreathes and white lights and candles in the windows.

Why was he so afraid?

Movement at the window caught his attention, and he stared at the figure of his father standing on the other side of the glass, his back turned to Matthew. He had an angry posture to him, and when another figure appeared he knew why.

He shook his head with a chuckle. Francis would never learn. And Arthur would never understand just why the other kept groping him.

When he looked up again, the figures were gone.

He had to go in. He had to _go in_. But his feet wouldn't move.

"Come on, Matthew," he whispered to himself. "You have to keep your promise to Alfred. Even if it's a year late. Come _on."_

And slowly, his feet began to move. He crossed the sidewalk, the yard—just beginning to be covered with snow—the front walk, the front steps, and before he knew it he was standing in front of the door, hand poised to knock.

He made himself knock before he could think about it.

The faint voices that he could hear coming from inside stilled, and he felt his breathing hitch.

He knew...he knew he was different. Older, wiser, more scarred, more world-weary. It had been nearly a year and a half since the last time he saw his family.

Would they...?

Any further contemplation was cut off as the door opened and he was faced with the laughing figure of Arthur.

"...up, Francis!" the man yelled over his shoulder at someone Matthew couldn't see, obviously Francis. Then he turned to face Matthew. "Yes, can I..."

He trailed off as he realized just who was standing in front of him, the most pained look of open expectation on his face.

His own face flashed through a multitude of expressions—shock, confusion, pain, happiness, _joy—_

"Matthew?" he breathed—and Matthew smiled.

"I'm home, Arthur," he whispered, and jolted as he suddenly found himself engulfed in a tight hug.

"Matthew," Arthur whispered. "Oh dear God, _Matthew_."

"Arthur?" a voice called from inside. "Who is it?"

Arthur pulled away for a split second, just long enough to yell, "Francis, Alfred, Gilbert—get the hell in here! _It's Matthew!" _and to close the front door behind him.

There was a beat of silence, and then the sound of multiple running footsteps before three figures appeared from around the corner, running at top speed.

"Mattie!" Alfred yelled, and suddenly he was flying at his brother, having leapt into the air.

Arthur yelped and barely managed to move out of the way before Alfred landed on Matthew, nearly knocking him to the ground as he pulled him into a tight hug. It was only his instincts, honed by years at war, that saved them from an unsavory meeting with the front porch.

"Mattie!" Alfred yelled in his ear. "You're home, you're home, _you're home!"_

"_Mon chéri!"_

"Birdie!"

Francis and Gilbert joined the massive group hug, though the latter chose to hang around the edges, knowing that Matthew needed to see his family first. So France was left to shove Alfred out of the way, taking his place in trying to smother Matthew with a hug.

"How—why—"

"Why didn't you tell us you were coming home, birdie?" Gilbert asked, being the only one really calm enough at that moment to ask the one question they all needed an answer to.

"I didn't find out until yesterday evening," Matthew replied, feeling a twinge of guilt. "I was too preoccupied with the fact that I was coming home—I didn't even realize that you wouldn't know I was coming home until we were halfway through the flight home. I'm sor—"

"Don't you dare apologize, Matthew," Arthur told him fiercely. "My earlier offer of shooting you if you don't stop spouting nonsense still stands. You're here now, and that's all that matters."

Matthew smiled, and then turned to Alfred, who was still latched onto his arm. "I kept my promise, Al," he said softly, and his brother blinked before smiling back. "Yeah, you did," he agreed.

"And you're even a day early!" Francis exclaimed. "It's Christmas Eve—one of the perks of us being a dozen or so time zones behind, yes?"

Matthew nodded, the grin on his face growing.

"Birdie," Gilbert said, and Matthew turned to look at him. "We've got eggnog!" he said brightly, and Matthew laughed.

"You're awesome, Gilbert. I can't believe you remembered that!"

"The awesome me would never forget!" Gilbert exclaimed. "I'm like an elephant! Only more awesome!"

"How long are you staying, Matthew?" Arthur asked softly, interrupting the start of another one of Gilbert's egoistical rants.

The grin spread until it practically split his face. "Two months," he said, and jolted as the excited yelling invaded his ears.

"Two months!" Alfred exclaimed. "Two whole months!"

"There's only one thing for it," Francis declared. "Group hug!"

And all five of them were suddenly in a massive, gigantic hug, everyone hugging Matthew, who suddenly felt more loved than he ever had in his life.

"I'm home," he whispered, more to himself than to anyone else. "I'm finally home."

If this was a dream...he never wanted to wake up.

_I'll be home for Christmas  
__If only in my dreams_

_

* * *

_

_I just pray every night; may God take care of you and the families, and also for all the soldiers safe return._

_Hi daddy! Mommy, Bella and I are wrapping presents to put under the tree and we saved one especially for you. We miss you a lot and we hope that you can come home soon._

_Everyone—Alfred, Arthur, Francis, Gilbert—this is Matthew. Wait for me—I'm coming home...I'll be home for Christmas._

_Merry Christmas._

_

* * *

_

...this took me_ hours_ to write. Jesus. My very first holiday fanfiction...do you think it turned out pretty well? Happy ending! Wow! It's a miracle! I do not own Hetalia or the song; they are the countries in this piece, I just didn't make it a major part and didn't feel like using the country names.

This is my holiday present to you all, because I've been so terrible in updating everything else. I _swear _everything will be updated by New Years; I'm on vacation right now, and my internet connection is sporadic so I don't know when I'll be able to post.

(READ: As I'm typing these words, I have no internet connection. So this will not be posted until later. Wow...I'm actually posting this on Christmas!)

The song is Josh Groban's version of 'I'll be Home for Christmas,' an absolutely beautiful version which I highly recommend you listen to. The words at the beginning and the end (not the bold ones) are actually in the song, the voices of soldiers speaking to their families and friends. My note on that is that I mean absolutely no offense if any of the names, etc. are wrong—I had to write them out completely by ear, because they are not included in any of the official lyrics. (Matthew's is not in the actual song. =D) No offense to anything else that may be incorrect, etc.—such as military stuff. My knowledge is woefully lacking.

A repeat of the dedication at the beginning—this is dedicated to _every_ solider serving their country right now, no matter where or whom. Thank you, for all that you do.

Happy Holidays everyone—be happy, stay safe.

With love,  
Erin


End file.
